


dead-eyed

by radiocreature



Series: bloodlet [1]
Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Canon Era, F/M, M/M, general vampire shenanigans, general warning for the kuragins being absolutely vile, i havent written for comet since 2017, op is a dolokhov apologist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 04:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18542065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiocreature/pseuds/radiocreature
Summary: In which Pierre comes to a realization.





	dead-eyed

**Author's Note:**

> take this fic with a grain of salt as i haven't consumed any vaguely-war-and-peace-related content for a year at least lmao

Pierre finds them like this: a triad of intertwined, vaguely amorphous shapes in the darkness. He stops, breathes, and does not make a sound, no matter that it is his own house. That Hélène (and one of the figures is, in fact, Hélène) invites her brother and their bastard mortal toy into his home holds a weight that Pierre is tired of carrying.

  
They are intriguing creatures, so alien to him, and it is cold in the night, and there are monsters out at these times, and he doesn't have a jacket. He stands in the doorway.

  
The three of them are on the sofa, the siblings on opposite ends with Dolokhov in the middle, languid and at ease. In the candlelight, Pierre can see that Fedya is quite a small man without his heavy military jacket. The last time he had seen him was when he had almost shot him dead, though he isn't spitting and heaving on the ground as he had been. Still, there are striking similarities to that time and now: the kohl around Dolokhov's eyes is smudged and tracked down his face like a badger. Like a dying man.

Pierre watches as Hélène, his wife, presses her lips to the side of his neck. In another world, he is beautiful. Currently, he is disgusting. Disgusting, and yet. And yet.

“Fedya, darling,” says Helene- and she had never called _Pierre_ that, never spared him any names- “Fedya, darling, someone else is here too.” Pierre startles, backs up to run until he realizes. Anatole, of course. The _darling_ in question rolls to the other side lazily. Anatole laughs, a flash of fangs, and- oh.

Memories come back suddenly, standing in the doorway, of the night that he and Hélène were married. Her fingers at his throat. He had begged then, for she was stronger than he had imagined, and in flashes of red he had shoved her off of him. She hadn’t laid a sharp-nailed hand on him like _that_ since. Dolokhov, then, must be his replacement. He’s a damn good one too by the likes of it, docile and pliant under Anatole’s grip as the latter laps up the blood running down his neck. Pierre takes a second- a liberty, if you will- to think. There must have been quite a bit of thrashing around the first time they had done this, it’s a practiced art, there must have been-

Natalya Rostova-

Anatole looks sicker, paler than he did before, gently pushing the half conscious Fedya out of his way, licking a bloodstain off his wrist. Hélène practically _drapes_ herself over the both of them. There’s an uncharacteristic softness about her like this, something reserved for her brother and their pet. Nothing for Pierre, nothing ever for Pierre. He wonders: does she know? She must have seen the girl at the club, the princess. Does she know what he foresees Anatole is going to do? Fedya Dolokhov, the murderer, a living carcass for the vultures to feed on. What could they _possibly_ do to the girl?

“Lena,” Dolokhov slurs, and Pierre can see that his eyes are blown and glassy, threatening to close. “We have a visitor.” Pierre silently wills himself smaller. It is not Hélène but her brother who reacts, craning his neck at a purely inhuman angle and fixing his gaze on the entrance to the room.

“Ah, Petrushka.” Anatole’s arms seem to coil around himself, pallid and gaunt. He seems not to blink; it’s a stupid observation, the creature has no reason to. Vampires, _Homo Nosferatu_ , they are strong, they are deadly, and their eyes, _Anatole's_ eyes pierce with danger no daggers can emulate. In all of Pierre’s life he has never been so afraid.

He has realized, in his short time in the doorway, that he has brought upon himself disasters not yet known.

He has run down the hall and into the street before anyone can hiss another word.

**Author's Note:**

> baby's SECOND ao3 fic! i was compelled to write this out of sheer boredom and honestly idk if comet is still relevant but. oh well. might make this into a series who knows,, comments, etc greatly appreciated! feel free to talk comet vampire shenanigans. much love always


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